Chirp
by The Readers Muse
Summary: Everyone was giving the barn a wide berth, even after the last graves had been dug and the lingering fumes from the fire had long since aired out into the quiet country air. It was more a feeling than anything else, a reminder that a line had been crossed. Perhaps even on both sides.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a response fill for the USS Caryl's "What if" Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #2_) "What if Daryl had found Sophia alive in season two?"_ - As requested by fairiesmasquerade.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, specifically season two, loss/healing, strong language, hurt/comfort. Also contains a big divergence from canon circa season one.

**Chirp**

_**Chapter One**_

They were on tenuous ground and everyone knew it. The Greene family patriarch had been mostly silent since Glenn and Rick had carted him back from his night on the town, subdued but still firm. He'd let up about the guns, but he'd made it clear that Shane was no longer welcome anywhere around the house. Hell, they'd even been thoughtful enough to bring home a souvenir, some whiny kid called Randall or Randy-somethin' with a busted up leg that wouldn't shut up about how god damned hungry he was and how his friends were bound to come lookin'.

Everyone was giving the barn a wide berth, even after the last graves had been dug and the lingering fumes from the fire had long since aired out into the quiet country air. It was more a feeling than anything else, a reminder that a line had been crossed. Perhaps even on both sides.

But more frustrating was the fact that no matter how hard he pushed, how much fuckin' passive aggressive ruckus he raised, no one seemed to be doing a god damned thing about looking for that little girl. Everyone seemed to be stuck in some sort of fucked up holding pattern. Shane was stalking around camp like he was practicing to fill in for the Grim Reaper. Lori was busy making herself scarce. Carol had started disappearing for hours at a time. And the others, well, were just _around._ Rick, for his part, was so busy tryin' to keep an eye on what was happening around camp, what with Randall and Shane in the mix – and was still trying to plead their case to Hershel that looking for Sophia didn't even seem to register. _It was like they'd all just given up._

And yet, no one seemed likely to let _him _do anything about it either. Making noise about his hurts and shit, acting like he couldn't handle a couple miles, lookin' for a little girl who was probably only a buck and five soaking wet.

Honestly, he'd had his fill of it. Hell, he'd already made up his mind the afternoon they'd cleared the barn. _He'd been sittin' around doing nothin' for long enough._

So that was why, on the second day after the blood bath at the barn, the beginning streaks of dawn found him slipping out of his tent and making his way across the field towards the house. He gave the camp a wide berth, easily eluding the sleepy eyes of the kid, Glenn, who was standing watch on top of the RV. Everyone else was still sleeping, filling the air with gentle snores and the unnerving _scritch-scritch_ of a sleeping bag gliding across unprotected canvas as someone started tossin' and turnin', riding the divide between sleep and wakefulness as the sky slowly started to clear.

Either way it didn't matter. He was almost there.

He made it to the barn without anyone being any wiser. Opening the door only a fraction as he squeezed through, remembering the way the hinges had screeched the last time as he tossed his pack in ahead of him. He headed straight for the gear tacked to the opposite wall, securing the straps of his pack around his shoulders as he chose a saddle and placed it on the stand, inspecting the leather for any cracks or tears before collecting the bridle and bit.

He walked down the line of stalls, giving Nelly the stink eye as he passed. There were five in total, three mares and two stallions, already munching contentedly on their morning meal. He chose a dappled, brown and white stallion, carefully leading it out and tying it to a post before he set about securing the saddle. Quietly untangling the straps as he dug his foot into the creatures gut, forcing it to relax before he clinched the leather buckle until it was snug around its underbelly.

_But apparently not quiet enough._

"Son, do you have an inability to ask for what you need or are you simply irascible by nature?" Hershel asked, stepping out from behind the first set of stalls with an ease that told him he'd probably been there for some time, one hand deep in his trouser pocket as he watched him pull the last strap tight around the beast's middle.

"Stay out of this old man," he grunted, figuring he might as well live up to the label as he grabbed the stallion's bridle and showed the man his back, readying to leave.

"Do Rick and the others know you're going out looking for that little girl?" the older man questioned, stopping him easily and standing directly in his path, his thumbs tangling in his suspenders as he fixed him with a piercing look.

"What do you think?" he snarled, side throbbing on reflex as he forced himself to still. _He wasn't in the mood for fuckin' twenty questions._

The silence was surprisingly uncomfortable.

"Look, you want us gone, right?" he finally challenged, "well, the only way we're leavin' is if we find that little girl, I guarantee it. So either say your piece or leave me be. I've got a job to do."

He wasn't sure what did it, his words or his state of mind, but it was clear that the man had come to some sort of decision. He was half expecting to get the boot and thus was actually taken aback when the man just shook his head and sighed.

"It isn't that simple anymore, is it? Like it or not, we have to evolve. Change. Flow _with_ the world rather than against it," Hershel commented, running a hand through his thin white hair as he considered the words.

"I thought we could ride it out. Carry on like we have been until the almighty sorts all this out and the government gets back on its feet. And like it or not, you people have shown me that is not the case. We may have our issues, but I believe strongly in the idea of second chances. Besides that, now more than ever, we _need_ each other. We can't do things without help anymore - that much I know for certain. And that applies to _you_ as well, son," the man finished, fixing him with significant look as he shifted in place, uncomfortable when faced with the man's honest scrutiny.

Eventually however, the man seemed to take pity on him and moved forward, indicating towards a mare, sleek and black with perfect forelegs and intelligent eyes, in the last stall who was stretching her neck out to be scratched.

"Here take this one. Beauty. She's firm and steady, good for long rides. She won't throw you either. Just be careful when you give her head, she is a stubborn one. I'm sure you two will get along just fine, but careful or not, you don't want to reopen that wound," Hershel stated, the corners of his lips twitching upwards - mimicking the echoes of a lingering smile before he continued.

"…She was my wife's favorite."

A thank you got stuck in his throat as he watched the man out of the corner of his eye. His face was a mess of deeply punched shadows, hollows that stood out like bruises just below his eyes. His features were a road map of grief lines. He figured he should probably say something; some useless platitude that usually kept the others from humping his leg every other day or so, but nothing came to mind.

Come to think of it, he wasn't exactly sure what he was supposed to say in a situation like this. I'm sorry we killed your dead wife and all your friends? Sorry we took advantage of your trust and hospitality and potentially saved the lives of everyone here by dealing with the fuckin' undead petting zoo you were hiding in your hay barn? Neither one really had the right ring to it.

He supposed it didn't help that he wasn't exactly good with people to begin with.

The man and his brood had been served up a big, stinking pile of cold, hard reality and for all intents and purposes, they were handling it rather well. His youngest not withstanding. But he'd raised strong girls, that much was clear. They just had a bit of catching up to do, that's all. They'd been secluded from most of it, protected by distance and coincidence when the entire world had gone to shit. It must have been easy to explain it away, especially at first.

Only this lull wouldn't last. The old man was nobody's fool, even before they'd shown up he _had_ to have known it – deep down, he would'a had to. This was just a storm that kept on coming. All they could do was be prepared to run when it did.

But naturally, he didn't say any of this. He kept his mouth firmly shut as Hershel helped him switch the saddle onto the mare, coaxing the frustrated stallion back into his stall as the mare allowed him to get close, scratching her side and offering a palmful of oats as an icebreaker before he swung himself up onto the saddle.

He breathed in her warm, comforting smell, the clean scent of fresh horse sweat and worn leather as he adjusted his pack, side burning as he looked down at the older man with a thoughtful glare. His tongue played with a handful of words he ultimately decided against voicing, biting his tongue as the silence grew stale.

He'd learned early on that saying _nothing_ usually got you into less shit than runnin' your mouth. It was one of the few things Merle had taught him that he'd treated as gospel.

Instead he just nodded, hoping the man could discern the rest as he clicked his tongue and dug his heels into Beauty's side, angling her towards the barn doors as Hershel led her out. A single, vein-laced hand gentled across the mare's flank before the older man gave her a swat, propelling them out the door and into the bright Georgian sunshine. The man's final words echoed in his head like a mantra as he leaned down, learning her movements as her sharp hooves sunk deep into the loose soil.

"Bring her home, son."

He fairly flew out of the stable, ignoring the twinge in his side as he gave the mare her head. The wind was loud in his ears as they blew through the barn doors at a fast trot, squeezing right past Shane who was running towards them from the house, waving his arms above his head, trying to get him to stop. But he didn't look back.

He hoped the stupid bastard choked on his dust.

But honestly, in spite of his promises, he _may_ have seen a closely cropped head peek over the clothes line just as he hit the trees. He caught sight of her, all tired eyes and flawlessly freckled skin looking decidedly domestic with a few pieces of laundry slung over her shoulder, as she shaded her eyes, squinting into the glare as the forest swallowed him.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! - The next chapter should be up tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is response fill for the USS Caryl's "What if" Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #2) "What if Daryl had found Sophia alive in season two?" - As requested by fairiesmasquerade.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, specifically season one, loss/healing, strong language, hurt/comfort. Also contains a big divergence from canon circa season one.

**Chirp**

_**Chapter Two**_

He'd already decided that he was going to backtrack from the riverbed, that was where he'd found the doll so he figured it was as good a place as any to start.

But when he reached the side of the ravine he decided to play it safe and dismounted, leading the horse carefully around the rim of the small gorge, eying the steep sides and the fallen log at the bottom with a rather vindictive sneer. _Christ, Merle would have had his hide if he'd known he'd been so careless._

By the time they found a natural parting in the trees, a deer trail that had a more manageable downwards slope to it rather than the _expressway to hell_ he'd caught last time, his side was throbbing enough to give him flashbacks. His body remembered the pain, the underbrush ripping at him, tearing stabbing and-

He ignored it.

Everything seemed exactly like he'd left it. The two walker corpses were still sprawled where they'd fallen, stinking to high heaven and already scavenged by the local wildlife. Even in death, no, _especially _in death, nothing was sacred. Nature was a two-timing bitch that way. Still, his lips did a u-turn as he spared them a glance, wondering off handedly what the virus might be doing to the animals that had ingested it. It was all a best guess as far as he was concerned. The same went for the water and soil, god knows were the thing fuckin' stopped, if it was _transmutable_. Only time would tell he supposed.

He made a loose circuit around the riverbed. There were no tracks, but then again he hadn't expected there to be. Instead he looked for signs of activity, _human activity. _He didn't need a neon sign, in fact he was looking for the opposite; he was looking for the trail that _didn't _stand out.

It took a while, but he eventually found it in the form of a small section of broken shrubbery along the eastern most edge of the clearing. _Pay dirt. _It wasn't much, but it was enough, a start at least.

He followed the trail for a few meters before he was satisfied. There were reasonably fresh tracks in the soil, too worn by the elements to get a clear picture, but enough to tell him that someone small had passed through here no more than forty-eight to seventy-two hours ago. There was even a wisp of fabric stuck to the bark of a maple not two feet from the mouth of the trail. The piece of wool was white, khaki white.

_She'd been here._

The deer scat was fresh as well; indicating that the path was still regularly used, easily mistaken by a novice for a man-made trail – like something you'd see at a state park or a rest stop. Honestly he could see it. She'd probably stumbled onto the trail after stopping for a drink at the river. It was obvious she'd been spooked, nothing less would have caused her to leave that doll behind. She'd been carting that thing around twenty-four seven since the quarry camp, it was practically another limb as far as she was concerned. So, something had scared her and she'd run off, east, probably headed down the trail thinking it actually went somewhere.

Contrary to what most city slickers might believe, animals, unless panicked or enraged, actually went out of their way to_ preserve_ their habitat rather than the other way around. Sure, bears would strip the bark off trees when they shimmied up them for safety, but generally even bears, the lumbering behemoths of the forest, moved through it with a natural sort of grace. Deer were perhaps the best example of this, they ate god damned _everything_ but _picked _their way through the underbrush to ensure they didn't harm the plants. It was a classic case of nature versus nurture, the natural order, the circle of life, whatever you wanted to call it.

Either way, every god damned time it was humans,_ people_, that stood out. People were unpredictable, they broke pattern. The puzzle piece that was humanity no longer fit into the grand scheme of things, and _that _was why they were so easy to track. People were easy, yet hard in their own way, a different sort of unpredictable. When you were looking for someone you couldn't just set yourself down by the nearest watering hole and wait. Nah, this was a whole different ball game. With animals it always came down to the essentials, eat, sleep, fuck, drink – with people you could only count on that model less than fifty percent of the time. Instead, you had to understand the person you were looking for.

You had to ask yourself, if _you _were a scared twelve year old girl from the suburbs and _you _were lost in the woods, where would _you _go?

He breathed in, inhaling almost unconsciously as the mineral-rich tang of the river rose in the air around him. The scent of crushed pine and mouldering soil competed for their place on the scale. _Where had she run off to?_

He let his boot scuff through the dusty soil as he considered his options, shading his eyes and looking upwards as a raven trilled from the forest canopy. She was twelve and a city slicker to boot; she probably didn't even know the first thing about surviving in the wild. So where would she set up camp?

She'd go somewhere familiar. Somewhere she felt safe.

_The house!_

He swung himself back onto the mare and angled them east, digging his heels into Beauty's sides as they started down the deer trail at a moderate pace - wondering, in the back of his mind, if it was _really _going to be_ that_ simple.

After all, a fool's hope or not, you couldn't exactly count on luck these days either.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter to this particular story, so stay tuned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is response fill for the USS Caryl's "What if" Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #2) "What if Daryl had found Sophia alive in season two?" - As requested by fairiesmasquerade.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, specifically season one, loss/healing, strong language, hurt/comfort. Also contains a big divergence from canon circa season one.

**Chirp**

_**Chapter Three**_

He had a lot of time to think as he rode, eventually finding a good rhythm. He sat back in the saddle and let the horse do all the work, keeping an eye out for walkers as he guided her down the narrow, well-wrought trail.

His side throbbed. The wound was hot to the touch, even through the dressings. He had to admit that he was probably pushing it; it wasn't exactly a wound you recovered from overnight. But again he ignored it. He had more important shit to worry about.

He snorted in frustration. He didn't know what had gotten into the lot of them. It was like they'd just stopped caring, stopped hoping before they'd even started looking. It wasn't so long ago that they'd had hopes and dreams coming out their ears. God knows, at the quarry, especially in those first few weeks, they'd certainly talked enough about how this was all just some momentary set back, an unfortunate _blip_ in their life plans before the military finally got its act together and sorted this clusterfuck out.

_Fat chance of that now. If they were going to do it, they would've re-mobilized after Atlanta fell._

They'd had hopes aplenty alright, hope in the military, hope in the government, hope in the president, the governor, hope in the fuckin' CDC. They had hope for family and friends. University courses and late rent fees. Hope for pets that had been lost in the panic, for keepsakes that had been forgotten in their china cabinets and living room mantles. Hell, they'd even had hope for the state of their backyard gardens despite being in the middle of a god damned heat wave.

He frowned as he remembered. Where had all that hope gone? Had they really lost so much that they couldn't afford to let themselves hope for one lost little girl? Hope for something that fuckin' mattered?

He squinted at the trail ahead, letting Beauty pick her way down the incline, straightening in the saddle as he caught sight of something in the dirt. He brought the horse up short, tugging on the bridle as they came to a halt. His feet hit the dirt with a jarring thud he felt all the way up his side, the action less than smooth as he tried to work around his hurts.

_Fucking ow._

He tied Beauty's bridle to a branch and walked the rest of the way, wanting to get a clean look at any tracks before her hooves scuffed them over. A section of the trail had given way, the drop was slight, more like someone had curb stomped the edges than anything else. But what had _really _interested him were the scuff marks on the remaining edge. Almost as if someone had been walking, hugging the side when the trail had given way, scrambling back into the middle on hands and knees before they'd taken off running again.

The footprints were too mussed to glean an approximate size, but as he examined the mess at his feet, he would have been willing to bet a significant amount of green that person was a thin, twig of a girl with corn-silk hair and more freckles then she knew what to do with.

_At least he knew he was still going in the right direction._

It was well past mid-day by the time he reached the house. He approached cautiously, making a loose circle around the exterior as he searched for any sign that someone had been here. The forest was silent, even the buzz of insects seemed muted. His shoulders tensed. _Something was off._

He figured out exactly what when he came around to the front of the house and caught sight of them, yanking Beauty to a halt as a trio of walkers came into view, stumbling right out of the tree line not twenty meters in front of them.

_Shit._

He slid off the saddle with a pained grunt, grabbing his crossbow from the saddle horn as he went. He tied Beauty to the drain pipe, hoping to hell she wouldn't bolt on him as he ducked around the corner and sunk down on his haunches behind one of the overgrown shrubs that bordered the trim of the old house.

There were two females and a male. One of the women was wearing a set of blood splattered nursing scrubs and the other, a small, soft cotton tank top and pajamas bottoms. The male, who made up the rear, was half naked, scuffing around in only a long sleeved dress shirt and a pair of nasty looking boxer-briefs. He held back an amused snort as the three of them milled around at the edge of the clearing. There was _definitely_ a story there, of that much he was god damned sure.

He lifted the bow and aimed down the sight, finger light on the trigger until he had a good shot. His first arrow took down the nurse, quick and clean through the right eye socket as the other two whirled, groaning in excitement as they tried to figure out where dinner was hiding. But he didn't give them the chance; he caught the male right in the forehead and had pj-girl in his sights before he'd even finished falling.

He stayed put after the last one crumpled to the ground, waiting for a smattering of heart beats before he was certain that was the last of them. _He didn't fancy getting ham-stringed from behind when his back was turned._

He made his way through the long grass to collect his arrows, squinting into the late afternoon glare before he bent down, bracing the toe of his boot against the male walker's head as he pulled out the first arrow. He didn't look too close as he yanked out the next bolt, _he couldn't_. When all this had first started he'd spent days reliving each kill. He remembered what they'd looked like, what had been in their wallets and purses, what they'd been wearing, wondering if they were someone's_ somebody_…

It didn't take him long to realize it was toxic, _the guilt_. You couldn't see them as people, as human beings who'd lived, loved, fucked, cried, and dragged themselves to work every Monday morning. If you did, if you _let_ yourself care, eventually you'd go fuckin' mental. It weighed on you in a way even he hadn't been prepared for.

He'd seen it happen, before the quarry. He and Merle had been stuck at an intersection just outside of Conyers. There was a roll over and a multi-car pile-up was blocking most of the intersection, reducing the flow to only one lane. It wouldn't have been a big deal, but half the town was trying to evacuate at the same god damned time. Everyone and their mother was panicking. People were abandoning their vehicles, threading between cars with suitcases and children held high over their heads.

Their faces were pale and blood spattered in his rear view mirror as mothers and fathers carried children, husbands carried wives and wives supported husbands. It didn't take him and Merle long to realize they were running. _It was here._

They pulled off onto the next side street, gunning it down a nearly deserted city block as the noise from the main highway faded away. They needed supplies, ammo, bolts, you name it, so they pulled off at the nearest hunting supply store. He'd acted as look out as Merle had slipped from the cab of the truck and taken a crowbar to the side door.

Five minutes later, sirens, which hadn't exactly been an irregular sound over the past few days, started up maybe a block north of them. He'd stiffened, slamming his fist against the door to alert Merle just as America's red, white, and blue screeched around the corner, sending garbage cans flying as the cruiser hit the curb, slamming into the side of a building and doing a complete 360 before landing - crashing to the ground with agonized scream of warping metal and shattering glass.

His fingers dug into the upholstery. Jaw tense, mind caught between wanting to help and leaving them be as he took an unconscious step forward.

But he didn't have time to do much more than that, because seconds later, the reason for their haste rounded the corner not half a block away from the overturned wreck. All staggering feet, blood stained, and stinking. The group of walkers would have been small by today's standards. But in the beginning it was a whole different ball game. It had only been a few days since the President had declared martial law, since that lady from the CDC had walked onto that podium and lied through her god damned teeth. Saying that everything was under control, that they'd managed to quarantine the affected areas, that a cure was in development and martial law was only a temporary safety measure.

Three hours later, they'd lost Manhattan.

He'd watched the footage in some podunk little bar in the middle of nowhere, as they'd blown the Manhattan bridge and Holland tunnel. The streets below the news helicopter were fucking _alive_, jam-packed with a squirming mass of black shadows and moving bodies. From the distance you couldn't tell if they were alive or dead, infected or not. And honestly, that only made it that much worse.

_At the time, he remembered thinking that it looked like the very gates of hell itself had burst plum open._

He remembered diving into the cab of his truck, toeing the door closed behind him and hoping to hell Merle had enough sense to stay put as the walkers came into view, making a bee-line for the ruined car as someone's arm flailed out of the passenger window, struggling to get free.

He only had one bolt. _Shit. _

He'd ended up watching through the side mirror as it had all gone down. For a while he figured they might be alright. The officer in the passenger seat managed to scramble out the window and run around to the driver's side, his boots crunching through broken glass and trash from the overturned cans. And despite the danger, he'd dragged his injured partner out through the windshield by his vest. His face was a rictus of pain and exertion as trickles of red soaked the sleeves of his uniform.

The cop dragged the man towards the storefront, slamming at the deadbolt with the butt of his gun to no avail. His partner still unconscious at his feet as he tried to jimmy the lock, but there wasn't enough time, they were practically on top of them, meters away, their limp arms outstretched. And at last the man seemed to realize it, because he went from kicking at one of the windows to his weapon being unholstered and firing all in a matter of about eight seconds.

The officer was a crack shot, even by his lonesome. He didn't much like cops, but he had to give him that. The gunshots echoed out, three, four, five, six – as the walkers fell. Seven, eight, nine, as the remaining walkers hit the other side of the car, slamming into the crushed dumpster and shuffling through the debris as they made their way towards him, crunching through the shattered glass.

The officer fumbled with the reload, wasting precious seconds before the clip slammed home and he dropped the last three. The air was tense as he watched him look down, his thinning brown hair crusted with dirt and grime as he shook his partner desperately, his lips moving, talking, _pleading _as his partner's head lolled lifelessly. His hands tightened around his crossbow, blinking into the afternoon sun as a shadow moved on the other side of the car.

The cop wasn't paying attention. He wasn't looking-

And that was when it happened, a little kid, maybe seven or eight years old, shuffled into view. At first glance, he looked untouched, normal. His bare feet a mess of bloodstains and broken little toes as the thing paused, not two meters away from them. And he swore he'd remember that moment till the day he died. Hell, he could still remember every detail. The dirty, Lion King pajamas, the mess of fire-red hair, the bite mark standing out through the fabric of his skinny right leg, even the trail of bandages he was dragging along behind him, one end still knotted around his thigh, as if tied in a hurry as those blank eyes suddenly focused on the scene in front of him.

You could have heard a fuckin' penny drop.

But after that pause it was all over, it was almost on him, snarling and jerking as it scrambled across the pavement. It's grimy little hands reaching out, blood stained and terrible and the cop – well, the cop just _stalled._

Somehow, despite putting down almost a dozen deadheads only a few seconds before, the man froze. His gun was up and trembling, fingers shaking against the trigger as his partner bled out in his lap, but he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger.

And it was that hesitation that did it, in less than a minute, his partner turned, distracting him, pinning him down as the cop tried to pull himself away. But it was no use, his partner sunk his teeth deep into his thigh as the man choked on an agonized scream, the sound cutting off just before the high point as the kid dove into the fray and latched onto his neck like a terrier.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of them stumbled back to their feet and started angling towards the highway. Merle had just laughed, leaning against the door jam like they'd just been treated to a real scene, muttering about pigs and just desserts as he loaded up the back of the truck with his loot. He'd had to force himself not to turn around and sucker punch him right in the gut.

And that moment had stuck with him, that _mistake._ You had to see them as what they were, d_ead, predators, the enemy. _Whatever it was that helped you sleep at night. Anything else and you were asking for it. You couldn't afford to let yourself care, to let morals and pity get in the way. It was either them or you. There was no middle ground. Not anymore.

He retrieved the last arrow and wiped it on his pant leg, smearing the dark, coagulated blood along his calf as he headed back towards the house. _It was time to get his shit together._

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! This story is now complete.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is response fill for the USS Caryl's "What if" Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #2) "What if Daryl had found Sophia alive in season two?" - As requested by fairiesmasquerade.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, specifically season one, loss/healing, strong language, hurt/comfort. Also contains a big divergence from canon circa season one.

**Chirp**

_**Chapter Four**_

He cleared the downstairs quickly, using his previous visit to his advantage as he navigated the layout with relative ease. He checked the garbage, lips thinning when he found no new tins or wrappers. The cupboard was next, but seemingly undisturbed. The nest of pillows and blankets looked almost exactly as he'd left it a few days before. _Shit._

He was more cautious as he headed upstairs. He went from room to room, checking under beds and in closets, calling the girl's name. But still, _nothing_.

The house shifted, groaning a bit as some critter skittered through the gutters overhead. He paused on the landing. The floorboards under his feet put up a ruckus as he leaned over the railing, getting a good look at the downstairs hallway as he looked for little footprints in the dust.

Belatedly, he realized they'd made twin tracks through the dust and grime, intersecting with one another here and there, her little heels dragging when they skidded around corners. The only problem was that he couldn't tell if they'd been made before or after his last visit. She'd been here, that much was certain, but when?

He searched the house from top to bottom. Rechecking every closet, every cupboard, crawlspace, and god damn bedroom and came up with fuck all. There was no sign of her save for the foot prints and the empty tin of sardines left in the trash. No sign she'd crawled back into her little nest in the kitchen closet either.

And slowly, in spite of his best efforts, the hope he'd been carrying in his breast since he'd left the farm that morning deflated a bit.

His boot heels clipped an exposed nail as he carefully navigated his way down the rotted front porch, nearly wiping out as he lurched forward; missing the last step and hitting the ground with a jar that he felt all the way up his spine. His injured side _seared._ He curled his lip at the sagging wood. The handrails were decayed, riddled through with mildew and termites, so frail that they actually moved with the breeze. Whoever had built this place had moved on a long ass time ago.

"Sophia!" he yelled, cupping his hand around his mouth as the echoes drifted back through the lazy, evening air, humid and close as the tree line tossed his words back at him. Teasing him as they grew softer, pitching near the end until he could almost visualize Carol calling the girl from the other side of the quarry, her voice sweet and gentle as the rock amplified the sound.

He made another circuit around the house, looking for tracks, bent grass, _anything - _for any sign that someone had been here recently. But there was nothing. _Fuckin' nothing._

Irritation and uncertainty settled across the span of his shoulders like iron weights. He'd been so sure. Coming here had felt _right_. After all, where the fuck else would she be? But now dusk was coming, tingeing the skyline with a vivid firestorm of red and orange. He needed to leave. To either head back or take shelter overnight and start again at first light - probably the former if he was being honest. After all, the place wasn't exactly defendable.

But he couldn't go back. _No,_ he _wouldn't. _

He wasn't going to be the one that rode back to that farmhouse and told Carol that her daughter was a lost cause. Let Shane be the one to do that, to look her in the eye and tell her that her daughter _wasn't _comin' home. That she wasn't worth the risk. God knows the bastard had said as much already.

His throat tightened, hands curling into tight fists as he looked back at the house, trying to remember that whole part about _not_ caring, about _not_ getting so flippin' invested as he stalked around the side of the house and dug his canteen out of one of the saddle bags.

_Christ, he was a hypocrite._

The horse nudged his shoulder, nuzzling his skin good naturedly until he clucked his tongue and caved, stroking her velvety nose for a few moments as he took a long swig, swishing the water around in his mouth for a few beats before swallowing. _Feisty thing_.

He looked up, following the line of the rusty old drainpipe up to the roof, eying the darkening sky as shadows started growing in the eves. _He had to make a decision, and soon._

He opened his mouth to call out one last time. But instead, he paused, letting his tongue trace of the line of his lower lip, stinging as saliva slicked the chapped cracks and worried skin. _Hesitating._

The wind shifted, and as if on cue, his hackles rose. The roof creaked, popping and groaning at the abuse as the death knell of ancient wood and corroded tin filtered out into the evening air. Something was moving up on the roof. _Something big_.

He waited, every muscle in his body tense as he crouched down. The moment grew stale. He sucked in a breath of air, aiming down the sights as he zeroed on in the edge of the roof, muscles quivering as the crinkling pop of rusty tin pinged off into the silence.

His finger tensed on the trigger, and then-

"Mr. Daryl?"

He nearly god damned pissed himself.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a day or so.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is response fill for the USS Caryl's "What if" Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #2) "What if Daryl had found Sophia alive in season two?" - As requested by fairiesmasquerade.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, specifically season one, loss/healing, strong language, hurt/comfort. Also contains a big divergence from canon circa season one.

**Chirp**

_**Chapter Five**_

He cussed out a blue streak, upsetting his side as he jerked backwards in surprise. There had been no sight of her for nearly a god damned week and now, _just_ when he figured that maybe Shane had been right after all, here she was, popping out of the woodwork like some god damned gopher.

He dropped the point of his bow to the ground and looked up, cricking his neck as he took her in, snub-nosed and dirty, clutching the tattered remnants of a gnarly looking blanket tight to her chin as as she peeked down at him from the edge of the gutter. She looked thin, a bit too thin if you asked him, but she was alive. _Alive._

"Are you lost too?" she chirped, sweet as a fuckin' cavity and twice as sincere. Rubbing at her eyes and yawning in a way that told him she'd just woken up.

He swallowed around a rather damning lump in his throat, forcing himself to get a grip as he shouldered his bow and shaded his eyes against the glare. The sun was setting on the horizon behind them, reflecting off the rusted tin as the girl's messy curls glinted, tangling with the last of the dying light.

It was no wonder he hadn't found her, she'd been sleepin' up on the fuckin' roof. Hiding in the eves and broken shingles, probably curled up against one of the windows for cover and shade, abandoning her nest in the closet for the ability to at least sleep soundly. _Smart girl._

He snorted internally. _A lost cause his ass._

"Hell no, girl, I've been bustin' my ass looking for you. Now get down from there before I have to explain to your mama why I'm bringing her daughter back in pieces," he barked, something in him soaring as she scrambled to obey, all bruised elbows and filthy khaki pants as she fumbled with the latch for the shutters.

She paused a bit on the window ledge. "Is Mr. Grimes mad?" she asked, biting her lip worriedly as she slung a leg over the window.

"Nah, why would he be?"

She shifted, the picture of childish guilt. "I wasn't listening when he told me how to get back to the road. I was scared. I didn't wait for him. Then I got lost," she replied, picking at a bit paint that was peeling around the frame as she shot him a worried look through the fan of her lashes.

"But, I found a house!" she added after a beat, sounding so determinedly proud with just a hint of well-earned defiance that he had to bite down on a smile.

"That you did," he agreed, pointing at the ledge and heading back into the house as she climbed nimbly through the window. He met her at the foot of the stairs. She paused, halfway down, one hand tight on the railing, gumming the inside of her cheek as she took him in.

They eyed each other with a whisper of weariness, cautious now that the euphoria of her discovery had worn off. And honesty, he couldn't blame her. He doubted he'd said more than a handful of words to her since she and her mother had arrived at the quarry camp. And what with Ed, well, that bit spoke for itself.

He wasn't exactly coasting along in his comfort-zone either, mind you.

"You've been looking for me? Really?" she finally asked, just disbelieving enough that the words made his chest tighten. _But he knew who was to blame, her stupid, bastard of a father. _She'd probably heard since day one that she was nothin' but a burden. _A waste of space_. Not worth the money it took to feed her, clothe her. Her mama could only protect her from so much, and sometimes, words could hurt far more than broken bones.

Or maybe he was just projecting. God knows they probably had more in common than not.

"Yeah, me, Rick, Shane, Andrea, your mama, even Carl," he answered, voice low, gravely, yet not entirely rough. _So sue him, he was trying, okay?_

"Is my mom with you?" she asked, tugging at the hem of her shirt as she took another step down. Still hesitant, but clearly warming up to the idea.

"Not here, she's back at the farm," he returned. "When you went missing, Carl was – well, Carl had an accident," he added, carefully amending the words in mid-sentence. There was no sense in workin' her up; she'd find out soon enough what had happened.

"We met up with some other people, good people. They fixed Carl up and took us in while we were lookin' for you. They have a farm, its safe there. There is even a girl, probably around close to your age," he continued, taking it as a good sign when she inched her way down the steps, until she was just two from the bottom, so close he could smell her as she tucked a curl back behind her ear.

"Now com'on, let's get you home, eh? Your momma will have my hide if she knew I kept you overnight," he finished, lips twitching upwards in a shadow of a grin as he gestured towards the open door. The evening air was humid and warm as dusk rippled through the long grass, the last rays of sunlight flickering on the horizon as the moon rose in its stead.

And when she finally nodded, face splitting down the middle with an honest smile, he swore he saw her mother staring back at him.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1**: This is response fill for the USS Caryl's "What if" Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #2) "What if Daryl had found Sophia alive in season two?" - As requested by fairiesmasquerade.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, specifically season one, loss/healing, strong language, hurt/comfort. Also contains a big divergence from canon circa season one. – This chapter contains minor allusions to domestic violence and child abuse.

**Chirp**

_**Chapter Six**_

They were about a mile away from the rundown house and she'd already managed to polish off the rest of the food he'd brought with him. She'd eaten voraciously, nearly talking his ear off about everything that had happened since the highway as they made their way through the brush.

And strangely, he found he didn't much mind. She was a bright little thing, curious and surprisingly intuitive for her age. She wanted to know about the farm, about Beauty and Carl, her mother, Beth, Maggie, T-dog's injury and seemingly everything else under the god damned sun. So he told her.

It wasn't until later that he realized he'd probably said more in one sitting during that ride than he had to the others since the quarry camp.

Somewhere close by, a twig snapped. She stiffened, pressing back into his chest with a frightened noise. His hand ghosted across her arm automatically, not resting, but present all the same. He pulled away just as gently as he leaned down, unwinding the strap of his crossbow from the saddle horn, shushing the mare habitually as Beauty chomped nervously on her bit.

"Is it a walker?" Sophia whispered, eyes wide as the flashlight lurched jerkily, lighting up the forest on either side of them as he dug his heels into Beauty's sides. He forced her to up the pace a little as his fingers gentled along the trigger of his bow, _alert_.

"Dunno," he replied, glaring into the dark as he checked behind them, "probably a deer or somemat'."

He let her hold the flashlight as he directed Beauty back onto the deer trail, squinting into the dark and using the moonlight to his advantage as he eyed the surrounding brush. _He didn't like travelin' at night, but the way he saw it, they didn't have much of a choice. _The house wasn't defendable, and he doubted the roof would take both their weights. Heading back now, even in the dark, was simply the _lesser _of two evils.

"I tried to find the highway a few days after I got lost. But whenever I thought I was close, there were walkers," she commented quietly, voice hushed down to a whisper as she clutched his packsack tight in her lap. "Are there walkers at the farm?"

He snorted. "Not anymore," he answered and left it at that.

By the time they made it to the ravine the wind had been knocked out of her sails a bit. The adrenaline high that had followed being rescued petered off to leave a very tired, and probably undernourished, little girl.

Every so often she seemed to catch herself leaning into him, rousing herself with a unconscious little jerk as she sat up straighter in the saddle. It was probably a losing battle, but he kept his mouth shut. She'd always been a bit gun shy around Shane and Jim, he and Merle even more so. _Not that he blamed her. _He and Merle had mostly kept to themselves; at least Jim and Shane had tried.

It made sense in a terrible sort of way. What with how her daddy had treated both her and her mama. Hell, as far as she was concerned, why_ should_ she trust anything with a prick? Wasn't like she'd had a lot of good experiences with the sort or nothin'.

She surprised him when she started talking again, munching on a bit of jerky as her fingers gentled through Beauty's mane, untangling the long black strands as she balanced the flashlight in her lap.

"Why did this happen?" she asked, her voice muffled from somewhere in the vicinity of his right shoulder as she drooped into him a bit. _Tired._

He gnawed on the inside of his cheek for a long moment, unsure of if she was talking about herself or the world in the general. He sat up straighter in the saddle, careful not to dislodge her as he listened to her quiet breathing, almost able to discern the subtle _thrum-thrum _of her heart through his chest as he considered his words carefully.

"Because the world ain't perfect," he finally replied, wincing a bit when it came out harsher than he'd intended. _Christ, he was not equipped to play shrink to a traumatized twelve year old._

But surprisingly, that seemed to satiate her, or at least answer her question at any rate because he _felt_ more than _saw_ her nod in response. Her blond hair was stringy and lank as it ghosted across the top of his chin as she determinedly started braiding Beauty's mane.

"Like daddy?"

_Christ._

Because really, what the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

"…My pa wasn't perfect neither," he finally offered, figuring a bit of share time was probably the best way to go as her fingers paused in mid-braid. She didn't ask for details and he didn't offer. He didn't have to. Maybe it was enough to know that she wasn't alone, that even at the end of the god damned world, there was someone left that understood. _That could relate._

She eventually returned to the braid, her nimble fingers weaving in and out as she relaxed another fraction into his chest. So, he told himself that was enough, at least for now.

The silence lasted for another good half an hour or so before she spoke up again. He'd just leaned over, snagging a sip from his canteen when she wrinkled her nose. Her face was a mess of fractured shadows and milky skin as the moonlight filtered through the trees above them.

"Now what?" he grunted, directing Beauty up onto a side trail, clicking his tongue as the beast huffed indignantly.

"You stink."

He blinked.

"Well, so do you," he shot back, finding himself woefully unprepared to trade insults with a bloody twelve year old as she fanned her hand in front of her face for emphasis.

"I do not!" she trilled, clearly affronted. He nearly laughed aloud when she took a dubious sniff of her shirt just to be sure.

"Do too, when was the last time you had a bath?" he retorted.

"When was the last time_ you_ had a bath?" she parroted

_Good point. _Like it or not, she kinda had him there. Not counting quick wipe downs, he had to admit that the shower at the CDC _had _been a long ass time ago.

"How about we both reek and let's leave it at that, alright?" he grunted, rolling his eyes as she sniffed indignantly and fell silent.

_Christ._ He was _so _not cut out for babysitting.

He figured they were a bit less than half way home when she _really_ started to flag. He knew it before she did, what with her droopin' into him and shit. In fact, he was impressed she'd lasted this long, period. She probably hadn't done much sleeping over the past week, didn't much matter if she'd been kipping on the roof for part of that time either. He didn't see a city girl lost and alone in the sticks getting much shut eye out here, with or without the walkers.

Strange sounds, strange smells, and an empty belly, it wasn't hard to guess that there had been more than one sleepless night on her end during the past week. Hell, this was probably the safest she'd felt since she'd gone missing, which, considering him being thrown into the mix, was actually saying something

"I'm tired," she finally admitted, leaning back into him unashamedly as she let go of a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Then sleep, girl. We've miles to go yet."

"How long?" she cheeped, the words slurring a bit near the end as her head settled into the crook of his shoulder.

"A few hours, give or take," he replied, squinting down the trail ahead as the moon hit a high point. And as she shifted around, trying to get comfortable, he vainly tried to ignore the little voice that was telling him that if he let it, he could probably get used to this shit.

"You'll be here when I wake up?" she thrummed, all gentle words and warm skin as she let him support the bulk of her weight.

"Ain't going nowhere," he allowed, clearing his throat as a rather damning flush spread along the base of his neck - feeling absurdly grateful for the darkness as she looked up, meeting his gaze through the soft glow of the flashlight as the hum of insects rose up to the fill the silence.

"Promise?"

She was already fast asleep by the time he figured he could answer without embarrassing himself. Viewing the lull as a reprieve, he chewed on the inside of his cheek as the miles slipped past. Trying not to think too much about the bony bundle curled up against his chest or the fact that he'd been that close to making a promise he knew, in the long run, he just_ couldn't_ keep.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1**: This is response fill for the USS Caryl's "What if" Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #2) "What if Daryl had found Sophia alive in season two?" - As requested by fairiesmasquerade.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, specifically season one, loss/healing, strong language, hurt/comfort. Also contains a big divergence from canon circa season one.

**Chirp**

_**Chapter Seven**_

The girl slept soundly for the most part, dead to the world as the hours trickled past. She did do a bit of whimperin' and mewling about an hour after she fell asleep, and somehow, one of her hands _did_ end up clasped around his wrist, _keepin' him close. _But other than that, he'd caught himself double checking her breathing just to make sure she was still tickin'.

_Christ_, he doubted he'd slept _that_ soundly since he'd been in the bloody _womb_.

To be honest, he wasn't exactly comfortable with the connotations of it. For reasons beyond him, she trusted him. That much was clear. Problem was, he wasn't exactly relishing the responsibility that trust came with. He'd always been better off on his own,_ solo_. He'd never been keen on collectin' any baggage, especially now. And yet-

The point was that he wasn't exactly cut out to be someone's all or nothin'.

Dawn was streaking the sky by the time the woods started to thin, with the sunlight filtering in between the trees as he caught sight of an open pasture just off to their left. A tired smile flirted with the corners of his lips. They were only about half a mile from the farm, give or take. _Almost home._

Even Beauty could sense it, rearing her head and whinnying in excitement as she angled them sideways. They took a detour from the deer trail they'd been following until they pushed their way through the brush and rode parallel to the tree line, trotting along on a narrow but well used path that seemed to span the entire length of the field and beyond. And tired as she was, Beauty didn't have to be told to pick up the pace.

He certainly wasn't immune to the feeling of anticipation. In fact, when the farmstead came into view he couldn't deny the surge of excitement that stirred in his breast, finding himself uncharacteristically emboldened by the notion of trotting back into camp with the girl in tow.

Carol would be so-

But he cut himself off before he'd even started. He didn't want to think about that. This wasn't about him. It was about_ her_, her and Sophia. Just finding her little highness was enough. Not just for her and for him, but for _everyone_. After the CDC, after the fuckin' highway, the group _needed _this. They needed a reason to keep on hoping. They had to _want _it – _want _to survive.

Finding Sophia was _more_ than just finding some lost little girl. She was a metaphor, _an example_, and a strong one at that. As campy as it was to admit, she was what Rick and the others had been looking for at the CDC. _Hope._

When you had that, you had the world, plain and simple.

He let Beauty lead the way as the beast eased through a narrow gap in the wooden fence, the line that separated Hershel's land from that of his neighbors. He tensed his arm a bit when the girl's head lolled, upset by the change of pace as she made a tired sound and shifted, digging her face deeper into the curve of his chest as he eased up a bit on the bridle. And without really thinking about it, he pulled her ratty old blanket back up to her shoulder, tucking it around her awkwardly as her dirty blond hair spilled across his torso - tangled, but bright.

_The farm wasn't goin' nowhere, let the girl sleep._

A quarter of an hour later he could actually make out details around camp, seeing enough to indicate that at least someone was up. There was even a small plume of smoke rising up from the camp fire. _Breakfast. _So, Carol then or maybe Lori. He caught sight of a flicker of movement near one of the tents but couldn't make out the details.

He sniffed the air curiously, stomach grumbling as the smell of frying eggs and maybe – just maybe – tinned ham floated through the air around them. _Fuck, he was hungry._ He dug his heels into Beauty's side, urging her forward. Even the sound of Hershel's generators were distinguishable despite the distance, filling the air with a gentle _thrum-thrum_ as people, too far away to tell who, crossed back and forth between the house and the circle of tents. _All in all, it was a strangely welcome sight._

He shaded his eyes, trying to get a better look. _Who the fuck was on watch?_ They should have caught sight of them by now.

But no one had noticed them yet.

In fact, it wasn't until they'd hit the gravel road that the yelling started.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is response fill for the USS Caryl's "What if" Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #2) "What if Daryl had found Sophia alive in season two?" - As requested by fairiesmasquerade.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, specifically season one, loss/healing, strong language, hurt/comfort. Also contains a big divergence from canon circa season one.

**Chirp**

_**Chapter Eight**_

In the span of about thirty seconds, everything seemed to happen at once. Dale started hollering at the top of his lungs, practically doing god damned jumping jacks on the top of the RV as he waved a pair of binoculars over his head like they were some sort of aircraft coasting in for landing. Rick and Shane came skidding around the side of the barn, guns raised, Sophia woke up, and Carol dropped the frying pan into the fire.

He dismounted, letting the horse take the majority of his weight as he slid off her back, giving the girl a moment to get her bearings as she looked around with obvious trepidation. Everyone was moving, running, yelling, _hollering_, no wonder she was having seconds thoughts about the whole thing.

He slapped on what he hoped was the approximation of an encouraging smile as she looked down at him, lip caught between her teeth as she hoisted that gross old blanket back up to her chin. He took her up in his arms then, gently hooking her by the armpits and lowering her to the ground, looking shell-shocked and sleepy as her long laces trailed across the flattened grass.

Carol was running towards them now, one hand hovering over her breast as she stopped halfway down the drive, shading her eyes, clutching a dishrag in her freehand like a lifeline, not quite believing what she was seeing. Glenn, T-dog, and Andrea were scrambling half-dressed from their tents, their yelling muffled by the sound of Hershel and his brood piling out of the house behind them.

Sophia wobbled a little before straightening beside him, looking up at him uncertainly as he shook his head and pointed towards the house. The girl blinked owlishly, one hand coming up to rub her eyes as she yawned widely.

Then-

"…Mommy?"

Mother and daughter met at a dead run, stumbling, and falling into the gravel as Sophia threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around her mother's neck as they went down in a tangle of excited limbs and happy cries. The others weren't far behind - Lori was crying, Carl was bouncing in place and Rick looked like Christmas had come early. Everyone, _even Shane,_ had a giant smile on their face, caught up in the moment as the morning sun highlighted the grateful tears that were streaming down Carol's cheeks. The air was alive with laughter and confusion as the entire group joined the fray.

He swallowed, hard.

And while he was pretty sure he'd blown a few stitches somewhere in between dismounting and helping her down, already feeling the hot slick of blood running down his injured side, he couldn't bring himself to care. Because this,_ this_ was what _'not just surviving' _was all about. This was about being able to have the good, the bad and everything in between. This was about _living._ And remembering how that all worked all at the same time.

He started leading the horse away, leaving the others to it, but before he could get more than five paces, somehow they contracted – expanding around him until there was nowhere else to go. Until he couldn't keep track of whose hands were where and whether that was really Andrea's side arm pressing into his hip as Dale and Rick gripped him by the shoulders. His muscles tensed on reflex as Glenn and Lori grinned at him from the other side of the circle, uncertain of how to respond as T-dog slapped him on the back and Hershel extended his hand for a shake.

He felt constricted, _crowded_, maybe even a notch away from one overreaction too many as they hemmed him in, pulling him in a hundred different directions as Sophia's voice chirped out into the fray, telling everyone how he'd found her. Everyone was interrupting, shouting, their lips moving with happy sounds, happy words. _Suffocating._

A nervous sweat broke out across the back of his neck.

He was five seconds away from rabbiting when somehow, Carol's hand found his through the fray, squeezing gently as she caught his gaze over the top of Sophia's head and held it. And, oddly enough, suddenly sticking around didn't seem so bad.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There should be one more chapter after this, stay tuned, it should be up sometime this weekend.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is response fill for the USS Caryl's "What if" Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #2) "What if Daryl had found Sophia alive in season two?" - As requested by fairiesmasquerade.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, specifically season one, loss/healing, strong language, hurt/comfort. Also contains a big divergence from canon circa season one. - Allusions to domestic violence in this chapter.

**Chirp**

_**Chapter Nine**_

It wasn't until Hershel had patched him up and he'd been plied with enough food to feed _seven_ people that he got a moment to himself. The screen door screeched, all gently rusted hinges and well used springs as he let himself out of the house. He winced a bit as the sound carried. He hadn't had a moment alone since the whole family reunion and the crowd of people inside was startin' to wear on him.

He rolled his shoulders, easing his aching muscles as he stepped out onto the porch, looking off, beyond the tents and front yard, to skim the line of the outermost pasture. He did a double take when he realized his tent was back in main camp. His clothes were even hung up on the line, half dry and ripplin' in the wind. In fact, it seemed as though every item of clothing he owned had been washed, darned and set out to dry.

He raised a brow, half incredulous and half grudgingly impressed.

"Carol and Glenn moved you back into camp a few hours after you left," Maggie began, stepping out onto the porch behind him, thumbs hooked in her belt loops as she gave him a once over. "I'd take it for what it is. They don't want you separate. They care about you," the girl added. She was the picture of the farmer's daughter today, sporting a pair of torn jeans and ankle-high muck-boots. Sophia was already quite taken with her, over the moon to have new play-mates or something.

"She's sweet on you, you know," Maggie hummed, joining him at the railing.

A heart beat went by before he made a rude sound in the back of his throat. "Well I just found her lost pup, now didn't I?" he snorted, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he shifted in place, his muscles sore from the long ride as he arched his spine, stretching.

"That's not what I meant," Maggie corrected, eyeballing him now like he was some sort of thick headed muppet she'd had to deal with back in grade school - competing with Randall for the title of class idiot.

"She waited for you, you know. She spent the whole night on top of the RV, keeping Rick, Shane, and T-dog company when they went on watch. She didn't sleep a wink," Maggie returned, her voice emphatic as she got right to the point, "and that wasn't just for her girl, that was for _you._"

He stayed silent until she finally wandered off. His hands gripped the railing just a bit too hard as he tried to think of something to say, something that would explain it away, something that would make her actions seem somehow, well, less genuine. Instead, he ended up finding himself at a stalemate instead.

_Christ, what was it about the women these days that had the power to render him speechless in less than five seconds flat?_

It wasn't until everyone had bedded down for the night that the woman came a'calling. He recognized the subtle _swish-swish _of her footsteps gliding through the long grass a full minute before he saw her shadow lengthen across the side of his tent, warping the vinyl as she sank down on her haunches and tapped gently on the half closed flap.

_Still so polite, this one. _

He cleared his throat and leaned over, unzipping the rest of the flap and scooting backward into his bedroll in silent invitation, figuring he might as well get the formalities over with. _After all, he knew why she was here._

She sat down on the edge of his mess of sleeping bags, lean legs folding delicately as she settled cross-legged in front of him. "I know you're tired, so I won't keep you long," she assured, her smile a strange mixture of apologetic mirth and something else he couldn't quite identify. It _could _have been happiness, but honestly, he figured that considering the circumstances, he wasn't the best person to judge.

"Where's the girl?" he grunted, playing with the flights of one of the arrows he'd been mending on and off after he'd lost the fight with gravity down at the ravine.

"With Hershel, Lori and the girls. There were a few things he wanted to check before he gave her the all clear," she answered, hands clasped in her lap as she thumbed the side of the purple hair elastic she'd been wearing on her wrist since the highway. Only this time, instead of tears, her lips were curled upwards in a happy smile.

"I hope you don't mind," she offered after a moment, gesturing around them as if to encompass everything that had happened since he'd been gone as she looked around curiously. He let the pause rest for a beat, slumping back into his pile of blankets, careful of his stitches as the freshly re-sown wound pulled taut at the movement.

"Didn't seem like I had much of a choice in the matter either way," he remarked with a snort, trying to imagine the scene as Carol wheedled Team Korea into packing up all his shit and dragging it back across the pasture. _He would've paid to see that._

She smiled, this time completely unrepentant. Cheeky even, as if she were daring him to reply, daring him to make a scene.

And a few days ago he might had done _just_ that.

He let the 'but' that accompanied that thought hang out in the open, silent and largely unremarkable as she took it for what it was, not as a victory, but more of a stalemate. The type of amicable pause that occurs when one side deftly compliments the other on a game well played, on a strategy or scenario that had flowered into something more, something _better._

_Now he knew where her little highness had gotten it from. _

He took her in through the half-light. She was a pretty thing when she wasn't cryin'. And careful, she seemed to pick up on everything he wasn't sayin' and then have the good grace not to call him on it, even when she probably had every right to. It wasn't often you found a woman like that. Hell, _anyone _like that.

But he shook the thought away almost as quickly as it had occurred, his hackles rising as his conversation with Maggie ping-ponged hap-haphazardly in the back of his mind. He stole a look at her from behind the fan of his lashes, side-eying her as she sent him another brilliant smile. His cheeks burned.

_Christ, he was an idiot._

He cleared his throat and she shifted in place, clearly readying herself to say something as the moment lengthened. You could practically _taste _the awkward.

"The only time Ed stopped laying hand on me was when I was pregnant with Sophia," she began, looking like she was setting herself up for the long haul as she sat up straighter, catching his eye through the uneven fringe of his bangs as somewhere in the distance, the sound of laughter rose up to join the mid-night hush.

"Ed was hard on me, but he wasn't stupid. He didn't want to harm his child, no, his _son_," she corrected, expelling a shaky breath before she continued. He cocked his head in a silent question. _Son?_

"From the very beginning, that was what he called her, before the ultrasound at least, a boy. He wanted a son," she added, hands folded in her lap.

"I figured maybe, if I could give him that, _a boy_ – maybe he'd find his niche and mellow out some. Go back to being the man I fell in love with when we first met," she added, pressing on determinedly as the bolt he'd been weaving between his fingers slowed in mid-turn.

_He had a feeling he wasn't going to like where this was going._

"After the ultra sound, he refused to speak to me, not just in the doctor's office, but during the entire ride home. I didn't see him for nearly three days after that, and when he did come home he- well, I promised her, I promised my unborn child right then and there that I would protect her. _Love her_. Even if her own father wouldn't," she affirmed, voice tremulous but strong as the scent of her rose up in the close space.

His eyes strayed almost unconsciously in the direction of her ring finger, something in him relaxing a bit when he found it absent of her wedding band.

"Why are you telling me all this?" he rasped, his voice a bit rougher around the edges than he was strictly comfortable with as discomfort rose up in the back of his throat like bile. _What did she want from him?_

"Because you helped me keep that promise, and for a parent, _a mother_, that means more than _any_ promise written down on paper. More than any vow said in church or weight of gold set on your ring finger," she replied gently, her smile fracturing into a thousand different panes of emotion. His throat tightened on reflex, cursing both himself and her for good measure as he made to reply.

_He wasn't good at this type of shit._

"Look, I told 'ya before, I didn't do anything Rick or Shane wouldn't have done," he grunted, eager to just play it off and be done with it.

"And I told _you_ then that_ you_ were more a father to her than Ed_ ever_ was." she replied firmly, her tone broaching no argument as she held up a hand, collecting her thoughts before she made to continue.

He closed his mouth with a sulky sounding snap.

"…And that is more true now than even _I_ realized," she said softly, her gaze warm, but fractured with the beginnings of a few unshed tears. He shifted backwards into his pile of blankets, convinced there was something here she was expecting him to say, only his brain came back empty.

_Damnit._

"I don't know how I can thank you for what you did," she offered. "In fact, a thank you seems inadequate," she remarked with a frown, her hands back in her lap as her fingers laced together uncertainly.

"Just don't kiss me on the forehead again and we'll call it even," he muttered, running a hand across his face in clear discomfort, calloused palms stinging as the coarseness of his stubble seared across the sensitive skin.

The words were out of his mouth and flying free before he'd even realized he'd voiced them. He blinked and she blinked right back, realizing in a single, terrible, _mortifying _rush that it was far too late to take them back as he felt the weight of her eyes on him.

She got up, rising to her feet in a single graceful movement that immediately made him think that he'd finally managed to cross one of those stupid, invisible lines women tended to put up around themselves and call gospel. The muscles in his shoulders tensed, hunching inwards as he unconsciously braced himself for the worst.

He wasn't sure what to think when she suddenly moved forward; her expression was worrisomely blank as she picked her way between his belongings and stopped in front of him, so close he could've probably seen himself reflected in her eyes if he'd had it in him to look.

And for one terrible moment he wasn't sure she was going to smack him or stoop down for a hug. Internally he was fuckin' panicking, limbs twitching and shit as he worked himself up. But before he could react, before he could even _flinch_, she'd bent down and pressed her lips against his.

He swore he heard something in his brain just fuckin' _shatter._

His heart was pounding in his ears as her lips brushed against his, chaste, dry, and ridiculously appealing before she pulled away almost as quickly as she'd started. His eyes fluttered open, lashes fanning into the hollows that stood out below his eyes, trying to remember when he'd closed them as his cheeks all but _radiated _heat.

He watched her hips move as she shot him a cheeky little smile and bid him goodnight, ducking out of his tent and walking away while he just sat there, stunned. Trying to remember how that whole breathing thing worked as he slumped back into his pile of blankets and blew out a long, pent up breath into the close air above him.

Apparently he had some things to think about after all.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete, thank you for all your lovely comments and interest, I am thrilled you enjoyed!


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